


Angle of Attack

by MachaSWicket



Series: Waypoints [3]
Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, Movie Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:58:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: <i>Angle of Attack</i>:  the angle of the wing of an aircraft relative to its flight path; too great an angle of attack will cause the aircraft to stall.</p><p>SPOILER WARNING: This story, like "Directional Stability" and "Situational Awareness," is essentially based on a SPOILER for the movie that is NOT in the trailers or any publicly released materials. Please DO NOT READ if you are avoiding spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angle of Attack

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: Huge thanks to VictoriaSinclair for the hand-holding.
> 
>  
> 
> Huge thanks to [lilamadison11](http://lilamadison11.tumblr.com/) for the gorgeous art!

Logan never expected Texas.

He paused for a second at his front door, steeling himself against the blistering Texas summer -- not that it would make a difference. The moment he stepped outside, his t-shirt was damp and beginning to cling to his back. It was twilight, and in any place other than goddamn Texas, the air would already be cooling down for the evening.

Logan pulled open the door of his RS5 and made himself reach into the steamy interior long enough to start the engine and crank the A/C. He moved away from the car, adjusted his sunglasses, and squinted at the horizon. After several long, impatient moments, he checked his watch, decided the car was as cool as it would get in the near future, and folded himself into the seat. Light grey leather, because he'd learned quickly that black leather in southern Texas was an invitation to burn your ass.

He backed out of the driveway, and revved the engine before he popped the clutch, accelerating quickly because the Audi was a _lot_ of fun to drive aggressively, even on the flat, straight streets of Corpus Christi. Logan's small neighborhood was nothing like the old homestead in Neptune -- no gated mansions, no winding cliffside lanes. The closest thing to a hill here was the slight rise on the west side of town.

But Logan was headed east, toward the Gulf. The interior of the car had cooled down considerably, but the sparkling blue water still looked so inviting that he impulsively took a left and chose the long way to the base, just so he could drive along the beach. He would cut it close for the briefing, but the view was worth it. As he got closer to the water, Logan sped up -- Ocean Drive was no Pacific Coast Highway, but his urge to speed alongside those crashing waves never seemed to change. An old Faders song came on satellite radio, and Logan cranked it.

A large part of the allure of the Navy over any other branch of the military was the near certainty that he'd be able to surf on his downtime, since he would be stationed on the coast. Growing up with a large naval base just across the Coronado Bridge, it had never occurred to Logan, even as he signed up, that he could end up in Virginia or Florida or goddamn Texas. He _definitely_ didn't know enough then to know that the Gulf absolutely blows for surfing.

But Logan surprised himself and did well in Officer Candidate School. And then he excelled when learning to fly, and earned his way to an assignment flying the Navy's newest, highest tech fighter planes -- his ten-year-old self would've lost his damn mind.

Flying Growlers meant Corpus Christie, so Logan had reluctantly accepted that shitty waves and uninspired surfing was the price he had to pay for this otherwise pretty badass assignment.

Logan's phone buzzed, and for the long moment it took the incoming number to flash onto the car's display, his stomach did a slow roll, like the moment you realize you miscalculated your angles and you're going to crash.

The Caller ID scrolled across the screen: Dick.

Not Veronica. Dammit.

It was pretty incredible -- nearly every single thing in his life had changed since the last time he saw her. He'd grown up, straightened out, and found something he loved enough to put his own self-interest on the backburner. But three days after bumping into Wallace in Seattle, Logan felt just like the lovesick college freshman who literally fled the country for the summer to try to get over her.

Monte Carlo didn't do it for him, Amsterdam sure didn't, and Logan had no illusions that the sweat-soaked so-called charms of Corpus Christi would be enough to pull him out of this funk. Probably nothing would, until she called. _Unless_ she called.

God, he needed to get over it. She would call or she wouldn't, and obsessing about it wouldn't help anyone.

“Dick,” he greeted, after punching the answer button a little more forcefully than necessary.

“Logan,” Dick answered, his voice piped through all fourteen speakers of the Bang & Olufson sound system via the wonder of bluetooth. “How's the sky?”

“Not bad,” Logan said. Strange that the part of Logan's life with the most consistency and staying power turned out to be Dick. “How's the surf?”

“Yeah, so that's actually what I'm calling about,” Dick answered.

Logan half-listened to Dick's rambling description of a surfing trip he wanted to take, and his suggestion that Logan just borrow one of the planes and meet him already. Logan turned into the entryway for the base, easing between the jersey barriers.

“Costa Rica, huh?” Logan pulled even with the Naval base's fortified guardhouse, shifted the car into neutral, and rolled down the window. He could really use a surf trip to Costa Rica to relax, kick back, and think about things other than a girl he hadn't seen in years. But-- “See, the thing is, the Navy doesn't really care whether I want to go surfing next week.” Logan loved flying, _loved_ it more than he would have ever expected, but quite a lot of his conversations with Dick left him wistful for those days before he had responsibilities.

The guard stepped out of the gatehouse and moved closer to Logan's car to scan the decal on the window.

“The Navy blows, dude,” Dick opined, loudly enough for the guard to hear.

The guard smirked, stepped back, and saluted. “Evening, sir.”

Logan returned the salute, put the Audi in first, and pulled onto the base. “Look, Dick, I have night maneuvers.” Which was one of his favorite things, actually -- night flying was exhilarating.

“If that's some new, funky way to refer to the ladies--”

“Dick,” Logan interrupted. “I can't go to Costa Rica next week. I'll call you later, okay?”

“Your loss.”

Logan hung up, wincing as the music kicked back in louder than expected. By the time he got it back to a reasonable volume, he was pulling into the parking area. Bam-Bam and Gonzo's cars were already in the lot, and Logan saw Axe heading for the door.

Stepping out of his car, Logan groaned into the sticky heat. He was halfway across the parking lot when his phone buzzed in his pocket. “I'm not going to fucking Costa Rica,” Logan muttered, digging the phone out and glaring down a the display.

He didn't recognize the number or the 646 area code, and he definitely didn't have time to ask google before his voicemail picked up. It couldn't be her -- wasn't New York 212? -- so it was bound to be a disappointment.

“Hello?” he answered, brusque and unwelcoming. Just in case it was a telemarketer. Or a _journalist_.

“Hey, Sailor -- what's your call sign?”

Logan stopped abruptly in the middle of the parking lot, not able to believe it could possibly be-- “Veronica?” She sounded confident and flirtatious, and not at all how he expected she would sound if she ever actually _called_ \--

“Yeah,” she answered, and he could hear a note of uncertainty now. “How -- how are you?”

“I'm good,” he said, on autopilot now, because his mind was racing about a million miles a second, and he'd had days to prepare for this and hadn't thought to come up with _something_ to say to her? "I--" he stopped, not sure what he was even trying to say. "What about you?" He winced. Spouting niceties, his voice higher than it should be and a little unsteady -- this wasn't the way he wanted this to go. Worse, knowing Veronica, he expected he would only get one shot at this. The last thing he wanted to do was blow it up with platitudes.

"Good!" she answered, and he could tell from the tone of her voice that she was trying her damnedest to project cheerfulness. He'd seen her play that role a million times back in Neptune, mostly to charm a mark for information, but it had almost always been directed at other people.

"Yeah?" he asked lamely. He didn't know how to start a three-hour discussion with her, but he wanted to hear every last important thing that happened in her life explained in detail. He'd always, _always_ wanted to know her inside and out; he just wished the years had given him some insight into how to persuade Veronica Mars to open up to him.

"Yeah, I'm in New York. I went to law school here, actually," she chattered. “And now I'm working for -- well, that's really boring and you don't want to hear about that, and I'm sure Wallace told you the basics when you guys had dinner -- and how great is Wallace, huh?" She laughed nervously, and he could tell she was having as much trouble figuring this out as he was. "I'm sorry. This is..."

The silence spooled out for a few torturous moments.

"Surreal?" Logan offered.

Her laugh this time was genuine. " _Yes_ , surreal," she answered, and this was the girl -- the woman -- he'd never quite gotten over.

“Well, it's not like we were ever very ordinary, Veronica,” he pointed out, the awkwardness fading fast.  He could think of a thousand ways to describe what they'd been to each other -- difficult, exhilarating, star-crossed -- but they were never, ever ordinary.

"Maybe not before,” she agreed, without any hint of censure or resentment, and something in Logan's chest eased, just the littlest bit. “But,” Veronica continued, “I'm pretty sure all the weirdness is your fault this time, Mr. _Top Gun_."

Logan grinned down at the pavement. "You know, there _have_ been other movies that include pilots."

"Not hot, _volleyball-playing_ pilots," she shot back, and he knew she was smiling. "You guys do that, right? Like -- regular, shirtless, vaguely homoerotic volleyball games, just for fun? And I can call you Iceman?"

God, he'd missed her. That humor and sharp wit (sometimes painfully so), and underneath it all, the kind heart she tried so hard to protect. This easy back and forth, this intellectual battle -- he'd never had this with any other woman. Veronica was hot, and sweet, and funny, but the thing that drew him back to her over and over was her her ability to meet him snarky comment for snarky comment. Nothing had ever turned him on as much as a fast-paced, insult-laden argument with Veronica.

He wondered what that said about him, sometimes, but his therapist was always prattling on about accepting the things he can't change, so Logan figured it was the _healthy_ decision to just roll with it.

"Iceman is a _terrible_ call sign," Logan managed finally. "And I'm a better pilot then any of those clowns."

"Awww, the famous Logan Echolls Ego," Veronica teased, "glimpsed here in its natural habitat--"

"Texas is most certainly _not_ my natural habitat," he interrupted, ignoring the fact that his t-shirt was now glued to the small of his back.

Veronica took a few moments to answer. "You're in _Texas_? Like, you _live_ in Texas now?" she sputtered.

Logan squinted across the pancake-flat Texas terrain. "The less fun part about being in the Navy is that they get to assign you to live pretty much anywhere in the world." A familiar red coupe zoomed into the parking lot, tires chirping, and Logan took three quick steps to get out of the way. It was Dale, of course, who earned her call sign by driving like a complete lunatic.

"Huh," Veronica said as she mulled over his explanation. "So I'm guessing the more fun part is, like, Fleet Week?"

He snickered, "Well, that and flying 700 miles an hour a thousand feet above the Gulf of Mexico.” He could _hear_ the arrogance in his own voice, but didn't bother to try to reign it in. “That part doesn't suck."

"Adrenaline junky," she said.

Dale walked past on her way inside and gave Logan an exaggerated _come on_ motion. "One minute," she called, without even slowing her pace.

Shit. Logan had pre-flight in one minute, and Veronica Mars, joking and laughing and _talking_ to him. He wanted to stay on the phone with her basically forever, but being late to the briefing wasn't an option. _Just fucking kill me_ , he thought. "Look, Veronica, I actually have night maneuvers today, and the briefing is in like one minute."

"Okay." She sounded totally neutral again, their easy rapport gone, and Logan stifled a groan.

“Last thing I want to do right now is hang up,” he told her. “But I have pre-flight, then a couple hours in the air, so I'll be off the grid until midnight or so," Logan explained, half-jogging to the door of the pilot's building. As long as he was in his seat before Bam-Bam actually started talking, it would be fine. "Which, considering I'm in Corpus Christi, means one a.m. your time. I assume you don't want me to call you back that late, right?"

She hesitated. "Well, I do have to be in my office by 7:30 tomorrow morning."

It was more than a little gratifying to hear the disappointment in her voice. Logan yanked open the door and headed down the hallway at a fast clip. "Okay." He reached the ready room and checked -- everyone was already in their seats, and Bam-Bam was headed to the front for pre-flight. “Well, as much as I'd like to keep you up all night, damn the consequences, I should probably call you tomorrow instead.”

The double entendre registered after the words were out of his mouth, but it would probably be worse to try to correct it. Logan thought he'd kept his voice low enough not to be overheard, but Axe turned in his seat and gave him a curious look.

"Um, sure," Veronica answered. "That would be... nice."

Nice? Logan grimaced. "I'm sorry, Veronica," he said, fast and low, "believe me, but I _really_ have to go. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Logan hit END, thumbed the volume all the way down, slipped his phone into his pocket, and headed in for the briefing.

* * *

The alarm was too damn loud. Rosie must have agreed -- she grumbled a bit and snuggled close to Veronica, despite the uncomfortably warm air in the apartment. "Stupid A/C." Veronica peeled back the sheet and smacked the alarm clock.

Who in their right mind would schedule a status meeting for 7:30? To be fair, ridiculous work hours were part and parcel of the BigLaw experience and, this particular morning, she was sluggish mostly because she couldn't sleep after talking to Logan. Their conversation had been by turns awkward and flirty, and way too short, and she still felt … unsettled. Or... something. She was having trouble naming this particular feeling, and the brevity of the call hadn't left her with much to analyze (not that such a trivial thing had stopped her from analyzing it to death with poor, accommodating Mac).

Veronica pushed herself upright and grabbed her phone. The text indicator was flashing, and she smiled at the phone, fully expecting some ridiculous assessment of points from Wallace or some weirdly appropriate GIF from Mac.

 _Logan Echolls_.

Veronica inhaled sharply. She'd been half-convinced he wouldn't call her back; instead, she woke up to a text.

Her hands shaking a bit, she opened the message.

 _Figured pictorial proof might be needed to convince you NOT to call me Iceman_. She laughed as the picture downloaded, and stopped abruptly -- he was standing beside a fighter plane, a less confrontational version of that familiar smirk on his face, arms crossed over his chest, and wearing a flight suit.

It was about fourteen times hotter than the version of this image she'd conjured up herself over the past couple days.

"Oh, my God," she murmured. She'd accepted, _intellectually_ , that he was a Navy pilot, but actually seeing it was something else entirely. She was flushed again, and kicked the sheets off of her legs.

Rosie didn't seem inclined to move just yet, so Veronica headed for the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, showered, dressed, and dried her hair in something of a haze, her thoughts careening from the warmly familiar sound of his voice last night to the strangely foreign picture. What an image. It was her Logan, but not entirely -- he looked harder, somehow, and leaner.

A man. Not a boy. She shivered a bit, despite the heat.

During Rosie's quick morning walk, Veronica forwarded the picture to Mac. The accompanying message simply said, _OMGGGG._

Veronica spent her subway ride rereading his text, and trying to decide how to answer. He sent a picture, so was she supposed to send a picture back? She hated selfies, as a general rule, but would _not_ sending a picture make it seem like she was a hideous couch monster now?

If she sent a picture, would he be disappointed by the grown up Veronica, she of the dull primary wardrobe and the polished hair?

And, God, why did this feel like a really terrible OKCupid encounter all of a sudden?

 _It's Logan_ , she reminded herself. _You know him. Don't be stupid._

When she got to the office, she surveyed the piles of files on her desk to make sure no client-specific information was visible, and turned to lean against the desk. If she held the phone up high enough, she could get the work-related mess in the picture. Veronica gave the lens her best exasperated look.

She reviewed the picture, and because she was a 17-year-old girl again, all of a sudden, she took four more shots at very slightly varying angles before she was satisfied. _The Second-Year-Associate, in her natural habitat_ , she captioned it.

As soon as she hit send, she regretted it, mostly because she would be on pins and damn needles until he answered, and it was only -- she checked the time -- 6:15 in the morning in Texas.

“Bad decisions, Veronica,” she muttered. Luckily, the piles of work weren't just the perfect set dressing for her selfie -- she really did have a ridiculous amount of due diligence material to get through. So she put the phone in her top drawer and dug in.

It was 11:30 before she resurfaced long enough to check her phone. Veronica grinned outright when she saw that he'd replied nearly two hours before: _Now that is pictorial proof of some truly sexy... manila folders ;)_

Fifteen minutes later, he'd added, _You look great, by the way. As if there was any doubt._

An hour after that: _This feels a little like shouting into the abyss._

She knew from their brief conversation that he was as uncertain about all of this as she was, but it didn't hurt to see it confirmed there in black and white. They were working without a net, and considering the hurt they'd inflicted on each other by accident before, she was trying very hard to be thoughtful with everything she said. _I think another benefit of the Navy is fewer conference calls than we in the legal profession enjoy daily._

It was an apology for her non-response, kind of, but she knew he'd understand. Well, she assumed he'd understand, because they seemed to still _get_ each other. She was almost _sure_ that wasn't just wishful thinking.

She needn't have worried, because he replied fairly quickly: _Pre-flight briefings are no picnic, but then we get to fly planes. So I suffer through._

Smartass. She'd been inexorably drawn to Logan for years (and she'd heard countless lectures on the topic from her dad and Wallace), but his tendency to lash out, to put himself in danger -- it had scared the shit out of her. If he'd really grown up, grown out of self-destructive behavior... God, the combination of his biting wit and an apparent new level of maturity might just kill her. Because just a couple days into their re-acquaintance she was unable to put her phone away and get to work, because he might text her again, and God forbid she had to wait a half hour to see what he said.

"Down girl," she muttered. "You're getting _way_ ahead of yourself."

"Did you need something?" Fred asked, popping up in her doorway. Their departmental admin was nothing if not attentive. Which to Veronica suggested that he was working directly for the managing partners, passing along intell on which of the associates worked the longest and most billable hours.

Paranoid? Veronica? Never.

"Just talking to myself,” Veronica answered finally. She hoped she didn't look as guilty as she thought she did, trying to casually move her phone out of his line of sight. “Long day."

Fred grinned. "It's 11:30. Did you want to get in on the lunch order?"

Veronica considered. "Sure. Cobb salad?"

"Done," Fred confirmed, and disappeared back to his work space.

She tapped the phone's large screen for a moment, then typed quickly. _We get free lunches sometimes. Sportsball tickets of varying kinds. Lots of paper cuts. Jealous?_ Before he could reply, she added, _No night flying tonight?_

He answered promptly: _No, but I did pretty well in night maneuvers last night. You should ask me about that later._

Veronica wondered how it was possible that almost everything he said (or texted) hit her so strongly, either emotionally or... Well, _night maneuvers_ , Jesus, he might as well have texted ' _Remember all that fantastic sex we used to have? Just wanted to remind you of my talents!_ ' for the way she was blushing. (And, boy, _did_ she remember his talents. She wasn't one to compare men, but... if she was totally truthful, Logan had certainly made an indelible impression.)

But that was a long time ago, and she was almost certainly reading things into their exchange that she shouldn't. Veronica made sure to answer on the level, _You just like saying the phrase “night maneuvers,” don't you?_

_It has its charms._

She grinned at her phone, because she could so clearly hear his familiar delighted tone in her head, just from reading his words. _And I bet that flight suit has its charms for the ladies, huh?_ She _wasn't_ fishing for information, she really wasn't. Probably. Because she was just catching up with an old friend. A long-lost friend. Who, yes, she'd dated. But just because hearing his voice still apparently made her pulse quicken didn't mean this was the start of anything... _else_. They lived in different states, and their lives had gone on separately, and she was sure a guy like Logan wouldn't suffer solitude for very long.

She should be happy Logan was no longer a big, troublesome question mark relegated to her past, and just take this interaction at face value.

Her phone buzzed and she read, _No ladies, really. Least not lately._

Hmmm. Veronica wondered how to take that. (And what, exactly, constituted “lately”?) Veronica chewed her lip, not sure how far to push this particular topic. And not sure she wanted an honest answer, because, again, they weren't rekindling a romance here. So she shifted the discussion a bit. _You'll have to explain how you ended up in the Navy later -- very curious._

_You figured it out last night -- adrenaline junkie._

She wasn't getting any work done at this point, and she _really_ couldn't afford to flake for 30 billable minutes in the middle of the day if she wanted to be home at a reasonable (for her) hour. But she couldn't seem to make herself stop, either, and so she texted back, _That's not new. You've always been an adrenaline junkie._

She had time to find and highlight one piece of information in the financial records she was really supposed to be reviewing before he answered: _True._

Veronica frowned, scanning back up the past few exchanges to make sure she hadn't said anything he might not have liked. _So what changed? You can't stand authority figures._

_Authority figures back then were abusive or corrupt._

She considered that. With the notable exception of her dad, he wasn't wrong. _Or both_ , she agreed.

He answered quickly. _Yup. And people grow up._

Veronica felt a little off-kilter, and couldn't quite put her finger on why. But she'd learned a long time ago to trust her spidey senses. She hesitated, then ended up writing: _I just meant that's a pretty big life change -- I would never have guessed you'd end up in the military._

A few long minutes passed before Logan replied. _Didn't think I could pass the psych eval, huh?_

Veronica stared at the message, and it was like all the air was sucked out of the room suddenly. He was joking, but with Logan, nothing was ever just a joke. Was that really what he thought? She'd done more damage than she'd realized back then if he _still_ thought her default expectations for him were failure. 

There was no way to make amends for ancient history via text, so she settled for: _Logan, that's not at all what I meant._

Almost immediately, he responded, _Turns out repeated childhood trauma and abandonment issues don't automatically disqualify you from the military._

Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away. His pain and loneliness had always been so very raw, years ago, and she was pretty gutted to see it on display again. To see it _still_. 

She'd forgotten, somehow, how very deeply he felt things. To Logan, everything was personal, and everyone who ever left him did so because they realized he wasn't worth the effort to stay. And considering the people who left him over the years included his mother, his father, his first real girlfriend, and his half-sister, he'd decided somewhere along the way that they must all be right about him. And for a couple years there, he did his absolute best to live _down_ to that warped self-image. 

Veronica knew his comment wasn't directed at her, at least not consciously. But he'd told her a million different ways when they were together, and apart, and together again, that he always _expected_ her to leave, and she always had. Did it really matter that the reasons mostly had nothing to do with him if she never explained that to him? 

It killed Veronica that he'd probably been thinking for years that she was just another in a long line of people who had judged him not worth the effort. 

She was still struggling to come up with a response when he texted again: _To be fair, after two wars, the military did lower their standards._

She wanted badly to hug him. Or smack some sense into him. Or both. Instead, before she could talk herself out of it, she jumped up from her desk, closed her office door, and hit SEND. 

“Veronica?” Logan sounded pretty surprised. “Everything okay?” 

"I'm sorry,” she said by way of a greeting, her voice hushed since her fancy office wasn't even close to soundproof. “I only have a minute, but this probably wouldn't translate via text, so I figured -- what the hell, I'll just call and.... say it.” 

“Okay,” Logan answered, clearly bewildered. “But--” 

“We were so good in so many ways, Logan, but we absolutely _sucked_ at communicating. So if we're going to try to do...” She wrinkled her nose, frustrated by her inability to come up with the words she needed, “ _whatever_ this is -- if we're going to try to be friends again, I just want us to be clear about some of the stuff that tripped us up in the past.” 

She paused for breath, and he tried to answer. “I agree. And actually--” 

“I know I wasn't the best girlfriend,” Veronica interrupted. “And I definitely didn't explain stuff very well to you back then. I'm _so_ sorry that you still think of me as some kind of...” She waved a hand around, struggling for the words to explain herself, “doubting Thomas in your life. I hate that you expect me to doubt you, and I _know_ it's my fault,” she pressed on, talking over his protest. “You were right, Logan -- it was so difficult for me to trust anyone other than my dad, including you, and my first inclination was always -- _is_ always -- to run away, and then figure shit out on my own. But that was _my_ problem, not yours.” 

“Veronica, I never--” 

“Please just let me finish this.” Veronica wished her damn voice wasn't shaking. “You internalized my doubts and assumed they were about _you_ , and I never did a good enough job telling you exactly how they weren't. Me running away from situations that scared me -- that was just a coping mechanism. A pretty bad one, actually, which isn't surprising since I learned it from an alcoholic. But my intention was _never_ to run away from _you_.” Her voice sounded thick and wobbly, and she knew she couldn't keep talking to him or she would end up crying in her office, and for sure Fred would hear that and report it up the chain. “So I'm sorry, and if you want to call me later, I'll be around after 9 my time. But if you don't, I _will_ understand. I don't want us to hurt each other anymore. Bye, Logan.” 

Veronica hung up, and quickly turned her phone off with shaking hands. She knew he'd call her right back, and, Goddamnit, how could she still feel all of _this_ so strongly? After _years_ without any contact at all? 

A quick knock on her door was followed by Fred's curious, "Veronica?" 

After a deep, centering breath, Veronica opened her door and said, "Yes?" 

"Everything okay?" Fred asked, offering her the requested salad. His head tilted the tiniest bit, and she forced a smile. 

"Just great, thanks," she answered, accepting her lunch and turning back to her desk. 

“Work,” she muttered to herself. “Get it together and get shit done.” 

* * * 

Goddammit. 

Logan stared at the phone in his hand, not entirely sure what had just happened. Or why. He'd wanted honesty and openness from Veronica _for years_ , he just never expected it would come in the form of an apology, followed immediately by her hanging up on him and, apparently, turning her phone off. He'd tried to call back, of course, but was sent straight to voice mail. 

"God _dammit_ ,” he muttered, pushing himself off the couch and pacing over to the large fish tank and staring blankly, hands on his hips. Chester, the spotted Sailfin Molly, flitted closer to the glass, then away. The colorful fish easing their way around the tank usually soothed him, but Logan was so pissed at her for turning off her phone, he couldn't even focus on them. 

How was it at all fair to dump all of this heavy emotional stuff on him and then turn off her phone to hide--? 

Run away. _Goddammit_ , she was basically fucking running away. 

_My intention was never to run away from you._

He actually snorted aloud, just remembering her words, shaking his head and pacing over to the window and back. What did that even mean? And what the actual fuck was he supposed to do for the next NINE HOURS while her phone was off and he just needed to talk to her and to apologize for making her think... _whatever_ self-blaming thing made her run away. _Again_. 

Logan blew out a frustrated breath, his body thrumming with nervous energy, with that kind of angry high he used to exorcise with violence. He'd grown up, whether Veronica Mars believed it or not, and he had much healthier outlets for his feelings now. Unfortunately, the Navy didn't really let you set your own flight times, and today was an off day, so his absolute favorite coping mechanism wasn't an option. Surfing was more of a peaceful activity for him, these days, except for when the shitty Texas waves pissed him off. 

Grabbing his gym bag, Logan slammed the door behind him and headed for the base at an unreasonable speed. Pushing the Audi to its limits was quite a lot of fun, but it was too much car for city streets, so he couldn't go too crazy. He cranked the radio, choosing a satellite radio station that played songs that remind him of college. 

Apparently, he was a glutton for punishment today. 

He'd skipped the gym once earlier in the week, so a nice, long makeup session would just have to be enough to take the furious edge off. This time on a Friday, there would probably be a bunch of grunts in the gym on base. Fortunately for Logan, a large percentage of guys lifting spent all their energy on arms, chest, and abs, and walked around with little chicken legs, because the point for them was to attract chicks. The goal for Logan was peak physical fitness, to keep himself safe in the cockpit. So Logan would make today a legs day, and have those machines mostly to himself. 

He pulled on an old NAVY tank top and shorts, tossed his stuff into a locker, and hit the raised track for some quick sprints to warm up. Down on the gym floor, he moved methodically through his routine, leg presses, hamstring curls, hack squats -- adding an extra set to most of his exercises, because he had the energy to spare today. And this familiar deep burn -- this was the right kind of pain. Healthy pain. 

_I don't want us to hurt each other anymore._

Did she really think he'd given Wallace his phone number so they could pick up where they'd left off -- loving each other and breaking each other's hearts in some kind of torturous cycle? 

Logan let the weights slam back to a rest with a satisfyingly loud clang. He was sweaty and tired, but still agitated. Still turning her words over and over in his head to try to understand what she'd been trying to say to him. Was he supposed to call her, or not? Was she leaving the decision to him, or letting him down easy by pretending to leave it to him? 

Though when had she ever let him down _easy_? She usually ended things with some combination of accusing him of crimes or detailing the exact ways he'd failed to live up to her expectations. No reason to think she'd be careful with him this time around. 

He moved to the mat and began to stretch, loosening his legs. Before he started to cool off, he ripped through a couple sets of burpees, adding two extra pushups at the bottom each time. 

They _had_ hurt each other. She wasn't wrong about that. They'd been pretty good friends, and then he'd become the worst kind of jackass, so obsessed with exacting some sort of revenge for Lilly's death that he didn't care very much that one of his favorite targets was in no way at fault. He'd hated himself for a long time for that year, especially once he learned the high price Veronica had paid. These days, his disciplined routine helped keep him from backsliding into depression or self-doubt, but it wasn't fool-proof. And on his bad days, his life and actions from age 16 to 19 were in pretty heavy rotation. 

He'd figured out years ago that junior year wasn't really what screwed them up. It was after that -- once they knew each other well enough to know where _all_ the cracks and fissures were, and starting using them against each other. When he was a teenager, he thought he was pushing at her sore spots to get her to open up and let him up; as an adult, he realized a lot of his tendencies were unhealthy attempts to make _sure_ people wouldn't leave him, no matter how hard he pushed them away. Kind of a self-defeating habit, because everyone had their breaking points, and he was really damn good at finding them. 

"Enough,” he muttered, pushing himself smoothly to his feet. He reached the locker room and peeled his tank top from his skin. Grabbing a towel, he stripped and hit the showers, turning the water up to high heat for a few moments, before easing it back to lukewarm. The gym had decent water pressure, and he turned his face into the spray, eyes closed. 

_We were so good in so many ways, Logan._

They were. It was an adolescent fantasy about true love and fate, but back then he really had thought they would be together forever. After all, they would never have been able to hurt each other so badly if they couldn't also make each other stupidly happy. Eight years later, and their lost relationship featured prominently on his well-maintained list of regrets. 

He stifled the urge to punch the wall. Because he didn't do stupid shit like that anymore (usually), and more importantly, he couldn't fly with broken fingers. He didn't think of flying as his salvation, or anything quite so melodramatic. Flying was for the adrenaline junkie in him, but what really straightened his ass out was the regimented discipline he'd learned in OCS -- those twelve weeks were the toughest of his life, but he came out the other side an actual grownup. 

So Logan drew in a slow, deep breath, and exhaled, and then turned off the water. Toweling off, he headed back to the lockers and dressed quickly. 

_If we're going to try to be friends again._

Friends. 

And maybe that was the crux of his anger, right there. Which was irrational and not at all fair to her. Logan had stumbled back into contact with her completely by accident. She hadn't tracked him down (though, as he very well knew, she had the means to do so if she had ever actually _wanted_ to find him). She hadn't asked for him to barge into her new life, bringing along all of these old problems. And she sure as hell didn't call him up to try to start anything back up -- she clearly just wanted them to be friends. 

Logan realized that he wanted more, but that had been true for years, and probably wouldn't change in the near future, whether she was a back in his life or not. She definitely didn't deserve to bear the brunt of his hurt feelings that she hadn't been pining for him for 8 years. She'd always been stronger than him, always more mature -- it shouldn't surprise him that she was able to cut her losses and move on better, too. 

Logan unlocked the car and got in, sitting quietly in the stifling air for a long moment. Maybe she'd done him a favor by turning her phone off earlier. He knew himself well enough to know that he would have screwed this whole thing up by saying precisely the wrong thing if he hadn't had time to think things through. 

And if she was right about anything, she was right about their biggest problem -- their communication _sucked_. She'd been more open with him in that little monologue than almost any time in their history together, and now it was his turn. 

Logan spent the drive back to his house organizing his thoughts. He wouldn't send a novella, but he wanted to make a couple of things clear, and reiterate that he _would_ call her at 9 on the dot. She could choose to answer or not, but he wouldn't be the one responsible for killing whatever this was before it had a chance to be anything at all. 

* * * 

The rest of the day ground by, with Veronica holding onto her professionalism by the sheer force of will. She wanted to check her phone, or call him again, or call Mac for help, or maybe cry in the bathroom. But she had active cases, and _not_ working wasn't an option. 

So she compared figures on spreadsheets to figures on legal documents. She highlighted subject phone numbers. She compared legal names on corporate filings. And when she called it a day at 6:45, she'd actually completed a surprising amount of work. She grabbed her phone from the drawer and dumped it in her bag. 

With earbuds in place, Veronica headed out, offering only tight smiles of acknowledgment to her colleagues on her way past. The subway ride was tolerable, though packed as usual, and sweltering. She got home just after 7:30, grateful for Rosie's constant enthusiasm. She probably needed sweet doggy attention more than usual. She sat on the floor, her back against the door, and hugged Rosie for a long time, then showed her gratitude with a nice, long walk along the river for Rosie. 

She still didn't know if Logan had responded to her desperate phone call -- if he'd left voicemails, or texted, or if he'd just listened to what she said and decided this level of drama after only two days talking to each other again was too much. Her phone was in her pocket, but she hadn't worked up the courage to turn it on yet. And, really, she needed some time on her own to figure out what she was even trying to do here. It was exciting to talk to him again, to open that chapter of her past back up, and maybe even fix some of the things that went wrong. But she wasn't a teenager, and she didn't believe that everyone in the world had One True Love that they would inevitably find, marry, and stay with forever. You couldn't grow up in Neptune, the daughter of a sheriff-turned-PI, and believe in fairy tales. 

Rosie strained a bit at the leash, trying her damnedest to run over to a fuzzy, excitable young German Shepherd. Veronica stopped. "Rosie, no." Reluctance in every line of her little body, Rosie moved back to Veronica's side, her gaze still fixed on the other dog. "Rosie." Veronica waited. "Rosie." When Rosie finally looked up a her, Veronica smiled and scratched her ears. "Good girl. Let's go." 

They moved on, and Veronica promptly began obsessing again. If she wanted Logan to be back in her life -- in _any_ form -- she needed to make sure it made sense for her. She was... sort of happy. Her life was stable, and if it was a little on the dull and sometimes exhausting side, well, that was the deal she'd made when she chose a law school _in Manhattan_ that didn't give her enough in the way of scholarship money to even cover tuition. 

Veronica drifted toward the retaining wall, gazing out over the river to the familiar skyline of Manhattan. There were a lot of things she liked about New York, and she didn't regret moving here. Not really. (She sometimes regretted law school, but that was a $150,000 decision she couldn't really take back at this point.) She had friends, she had a job that, if she didn't precisely _love_ , at least made her secure enough financially to get her own place like an actual adult person. 

She had a life, and it was good and bad and everything in between, but it was hers. It was what _she_ chose, and not the result of a thousand outside forces, the way she knew any life in Neptune would have been. She wasn't deliriously happy, but she was a grown woman, and she knew deliriously happy only existed in fiction. She was comfortable. 

Logan -- the old Logan, _her_ Logan -- could be a destabilizing force. Maybe this new, adult (hot fighter pilot) version of Logan could just... _be_ in her life. Without arrests and blood feuds and broken hearts. Without wreaking havoc. 

She brought Rosie toward a park bench, and clipped on the long lead, letting Rosie wander farther. If she could have Logan back in her life, she already knew she wanted him there. This conclusion had been pretty much inevitable since Wallace called her with all of this Navy pilot stuff.  Apparently, Logan was still some sort of irresistible cat nip to her, and she realized after hearing his familiar voice that didn't have any desire to fight it. But being an adult also meant understanding that it could only work if they got past some of those things that used to drive them apart. 

She really hoped Logan had reached the same conclusion. 

Veronica sat on the bench and finally let herself dig her phone from her pocket. The wait for it to power up was nearly interminable, but eventually, it told her she had 13 new messages. 

Pulse pounding, Veronica opened the text program. Two from Wallace, one from her dad, one from Mac. 

Nine from Logan. 

“Sorry, Dad,” she murmured, and pressed _Logan Echolls._

_Veronica. We do need to work on communication. Will do my best considering character limits._

She realized she was holding her breath, and made herself stop being so dramatic. The next text said: _I had a lot of issues when we were together, some you know about, some you don't._

_Like you said of running away, they were my issues, but they affected both of us._

_Used to expect people to leave, because people always left, in different ways. Lilly, Mom. Aaron. Duncan._

She blinked, and wiped a hand across her eyes quickly to clear her vision. 

_You left a couple times, but you came back almost as often & you leaving was usually my fault._

_Your issue & my issues were incompatible, so we kept hurting each other. Never wanted that._

_So I'm sorry, Veronica. Sorry for junior year. Sorry for that summer & the PCHer feud._

_Sorry for giving up on us freshman year. Sorry for Madison. Sorry for Piz._

_*NOT* sorry about that jackass Russian, kid, though. Totally deserved an ass kicking. ;)_

Veronica gave a watery chuckle, and the sound was so abrupt and so strange that it brought Rosie to her side with a curious head tilt. "I'm okay, girl."

His last message said, _I'm calling you at 9. We need to communicate better. So answer the phone._

She was grinning like a moron, she realized, but couldn't seem to make herself stop. "Come on, girl," Veronica said to Rosie. "Let's go home."

* * *

Logan followed up the gym workout with a quick three-mile run around his neighborhood, and still had a lot of time to kill. The PS3 was good for times like these, and he whiled away the early evening hours playing some strange noir mystery game set in LA. Then he made dinner, and forced himself stop checking the clock while he ate.

Finally, _finally_ , it was nearly 8, and Logan grabbed his phone from the charger (preparation, he'd learned in flight school, is the most important part of achieving success). He paced his living room, suddenly nervous. He knew she would answer. He _knew_ it.

But what if she didn't?

He checked the clock. Five minutes to 8, his time.

“Fuck it,” Logan muttered, and hit send.

It rang twice, and then she picked up. “Well, someone's impatient.”

She sounded good. God, he was such a sap. “I missed your dulcet tones,” he answered, letting his affection for her seep into his words. Never worked trying to hide anything from her anyway, so he figured he might as well be up front about it.

“Oh, yeah?” she asked, her tone warm and inviting.

“For years.” Well, that might have been a little too far, so Logan pressed ahead before she could react. “This afternoon--”

“Logan,” she interrupted. “Can we talk about something a little less... heavy? At least at first.”

“What's your favorite restaurant in New York?” he asked immediately. Because he still wanted to hear every last detail, so what did it matter the order?

She laughed. “I'm actually in Long Island City, across the East River from Manhattan proper. So my favorite restaurant around here is the bar down the street."

"The bar down the street?" he repeated, amused. "Best happy hour around?"

"Probably, but they have amazingly good fish tacos. What's your favorite restaurant in Corpus Christi?”

Logan grimaced in the general direction of the kitchen. “I don't have one. There's some decent Tex-Mex, but, you know, that assumes that you _like_ Tex-Mex.”

“Mmmm, good point. Okay, what kind of plane do you fly?”

“EA-18G," he rattled off, knowing that wouldn't mean anything to her at all. The military was really in a league of its own when it came to jargon and acronyms. "It's an Electronic Attack Aircraft, but everyone just calls them Growlers.”

She considered his answer for a moment. “I don't know what most of that means -- more or less sexy than Maverick's plane in _Top Gun_?”

Logan laughed outright. “More sexy. Dual cockpit like the F-14s, but way more advanced.” He paused for a moment, savoring the back-and-forth. “What's your favorite thing about being a lawyer?”

“The salary,” she answered promptly. He thought maybe she was kidding, but she added, “It's actually pretty dull. Law school was much more interesting -- lots of work, but some of my classes were fascinating.”

"Top of your class?" he guessed.

"Top 3% of my class."

"And still pissed about it," he inferred. Veronica had a tendency to be a little competitive on occasion.

"Not... _pissed_ , exactly. Disappointed, maybe."

"You should be proud of yourself, Veronica." He figured it would be too weird for him to tell her he was proud of her. "I know your dad's proud of you," he said instead.  "He's good?"

“He's great," she answered, her voice soft and warm. Logan would never begrudge her the amazing man she got for a father, but some small, selfish part of him would always be jealous that he couldn't have had a father even half as good as Keith Mars. Hell, he would've settled for a disengaged, abusive father who _didn't_ murder people.  Which Logan thought was a pretty low bar to clear, and yet.

Veronica continued, pulling him out of his dark thoughts, "Mars Investigations is going strong. Stronger than you remember, I'm sure.”

“I'm back there pretty regularly, when I have leave. I still have a place in Neptune.”

"Couldn't get your surfboards all the way to Texas on your Growler?" she teased.

"The surfing here _sucks_."

"Poor, sad Navy fighter pilot guy," Veronica mocked. "Oh, Wallace told me to ask about your call sign.”

“He did, huh?” Logan hedged.

“Yup.” Clearly she wasn't going to budge until he told her.

“My call sign sounds dumb without the story.”

“So tell me a story, Logan.” She was grinning -- he could tell just by the timbre of her voice how much enjoyment she was getting out of this.

Like he could deny her anything that made her sound so damn happy. Logan shifted on the couch, deciding where to start. “Okay, so pilots don't get their call signs in flight school until they do something stupid, or until the actual pilots figure out what to call them to piss them off.”

“Okay.”

“Flight school is in Pensacola, and you go through a progression – simulators, observational flights, instructional flights where you share the controls, test flights where you're in control of the plane the whole time, and finally, if you pass all that, you get your first solo flight.”

“How long is flight school?” Veronica asked.

Logan forgot sometimes how much of this military stuff he took for granted, day to day. Aside from Dick, most of the people he interacted with were military or military spouses. “Depends on your track, but I got Advanced Strike, which basically means fighter planes. I had 2 years of training before I was assigned to the Growlers.”

“So much schooling,” she commented.

“Surprisingly, they want you to have pretty good grasp on things before they let you fly their $80 million plane.”

“Eighty _million_?” Veronica repeated, clearly shocked.

“I'm not gonna lie to you, Veronica -- my plane is pretty badass.” She snorted, but didn't contradict him. “So,” Logan continued, “my first solo was in a T-34, which is a single prop. I was pretty jittery in the preflight, took a long time doing the visual of the plane before I took off. But once I got in the air -- it was fantastic. I did everything I was supposed to do, changed altitudes, visual nav, couple precision maneuvers, and I was coming back in to land when the indicators started to show something was wrong.”

“Oh, no,” Veronica said.

“I couldn't tell exactly what the problem was from the cockpit, because you can't see much of the plane, ironically enough," Logan warmed to the story, remembering the flare of panic when he realized the combination of alerts didn't make immediate sense to him. Not identifying the problem is the worst mistake you can make in the air. "Turns out the hydraulic line sprung a leak. Luckily, I was low and slow and already flying dirty -- sorry, already wheels down to land -- and I ignored the, uh, suggestion to bail.”

“Bail?” Veronica echoed, a little loudly. “Wait, you mean eject?”

“Yes. I was on final approach, so I had no time to decide -- try to land and possibly crash, or bug out and head for the Gulf to bail." He could still see the flightline growing larger in front of him during that terrible moment of indecision. "I'm coming in a little too fast, the tower is telling me I damn well better not eject or crash land on their airstrip, and my controls are starting to get sluggish.”

“Oh, my God, Logan.”

“So I get the plane down -- pretty bad landing, but considering the circumstances, I'm okay with anything that keeps the plane on its wheels. But the hydraulics are in total failure now, and I can't slow the damn thing down. I'm on full brakes, trying the flaps, and it's barely making a difference. Went right off the end of the runway, just missed the runway end lights, which would have been game over. Lost the nose gear in the grass, then the propeller sheared off somewhere, and eventually dragged to a stop in the field.” Logan shook his head, remembering the sudden stillness once the plane shuddered to a halt.

“Were you hurt?”

Logan was amused and touched that she actually sounded worried. “I was a little banged up, nothing major.” He admitted, glancing reflexively at his left hand. He'd cracked a rib and broken a couple fingers, but that was from falling _out_ of the plane after it finally stopped, and he'd be damned if he'd tell her that part of the story. “Pretty much everyone on base that day ended up out there staring at that damn plane, and all the torn up grass around it, and so my call sign is Divot.”

“Divot?” she repeated, and started to laugh. “That's kind of terrible.”

“Navy airmen are kind of terrible,” he answered. Which is probably why he fit in so well. “Instead of lauding my incredible landing skills, every instructor that examined the plane called me a fucking moron for not ditching over the Gulf.”

“I can't believe you got back in a plane after that,” she said. “It sounds terrifying.”

“You can't imagine it, Veronica. Flying." He paused, trying to figure out how to explain something so visceral in words. "I wish I could take you up in the Growler, because it's amazing up there.”

“You sound so great when you talk about flying, Logan. I love--” She stopped, and her voice was quieter when she continued, “I love that you found something that makes you happy.”

He didn't know exactly how to answer, so instead he said, “I love it, too.”

* * *

Veronica snuggled closer to Rosie on the couch, accepting that she was just going to be too warm in this apartment (until winter, when the heat would  keep it a charming 67 degrees, tops). The pit bull chuffed, but adjusted so her head was on Veronica's hip.

Veronica tucked the phone against the throw pillow, propping it against her ear. "So what attracted you to the Navy?" she asked carefully. This is where their earlier conversation ran off the tracks, so she wanted to be clear about her motives. "I really am _not_ judging you or anything like that. I'm just ... really curious."

Logan hesitated, and she _really_ hoped she hadn't killed this easy interaction. _Again_. "It wasn't just the adrenaline thing," he admitted. "I mean, I couldn't join up and _demand_ that they let me fly planes to take the edge off. I had to earn it."

He stopped again, and Veronica squirmed a little in the silence for a few long moments before softly prompting, "And?"

“I don't know how to explain--" He blew out a frustrated breath. "Sometime around junior year of college, I admitted to myself that I was going to become some sad story on _Access Hollywood_ if I didn't get my shit handled. It wasn't-- I didn't drive my car into a tree, or OD at a party or anything so dramatic. I just didn't like the guy I was."

"Logan," she murmured, aching for him. What he was describing -- it was exactly what worried her back then. He was so much better than some morality free playboy, but there'd always been this terrible possibility, however slim, that he'd give in to the darkness, and the soft, caring, protective Logan would be lost.

"Everything was coming too easy, and--" He sighed, and when he continued, his voice was low and strained. "You know I hate my father. You know the kind of monster he was.”

“I know, Logan," she answered. "I'm sorry. You deserved better.”

“I-- I'm not going to say it's okay, because it can never be _okay_ , what he did," Logan explained, "but I'm at peace with that part of my life. I had a shitty, abusive father, and a loving, drug-addicted mother. Between the two of them, I didn't really have anyone to teach me right from wrong. That's not an excuse, by the way.”

“Logan.” Just his name. Because there was nothing she could say that would make any of this better.

“I just don't want you to think I'm blaming my shitty behavior on them."

Veronica pushed herself upright, ignoring Rosie's put-upon grunts. “It's been a few years, Logan," she said, hoping that he would really _hear_ her, "but you've never been the kind of person to blame other people for your faults. In fact, you're the opposite.”

“What do you mean?” He sounded bewildered.

“You blame yourself for other people's faults. Your father beat you because there was something wrong with _him_ , not you. I hate your father for that, too," she added vehemently, though it probably wasn't her place. "You should never have to doubt that people love you, and that you're _worthy_ of it.”

He didn't answer.

Veronica moved the phone a bit, listened harder. All she heard was muffled breathing. “Logan?”

“Yeah," he answered, his voice rough with emotion. "Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Thanks for saying that.”

“I'm not just saying it, I mean it.”

“I know. I--" He let out an unsteady breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was a bit stronger. “Anyway, when I realized I was turning into the same kind of entitled shithead my father was _before_ his evolution into an abusive, murdering asshole, I decided to make some changes. It wasn't even a decision, really, it was survival instinct."

When Veronica thought back to her junior year of college, she remembered trivial shit -- her favorite bar in San Francisco, scrimping on meals to pay for movies, cramming for midterms and finals. Basically nothing in comparison to the major life overhaul Logan had been considering. She was _so_ proud of him, so happy that he'd made it out of Neptune alive and healthy.

"I didn't want to have to rely on anyone," Logan continued. "And that includes financially. I _hate_ his money. Trina doesn't have the same hangups, but it feels like blood money to me, and I didn't want to live off of it. So I bought a place in Neptune, gave a bunch of money away, and invested the rest of my half. I needed a job. A career.”

“And that turned into enlisting,” she finished. It actually made a lot of sense, now that she understood what he'd been trying to change about his life.

“It's pretty much the opposite of a wealthy, privileged, rule-free upbringing, right?” Logan pointed out. “I wanted to be my own man, and to do that, I needed to figure out _how_ to be a man.” His tone lightened when he added, “You don't learn a lot of self-reliance with two live in maids and a cook."

Smiling, despite the fact that he couldn't see her, just because she appreciated his sardonic sense of humor, Veronica admitted, "I would give up a pretty big chunk of my self-reliance if someone would come cook for me."

He chuckled. "I'll cook for you sometime. It's pretty satisfying."

Her breath caught a little, and she wasn't sure whether it was the idea of him knowing his way around a kitchen, or the suggestion he would cook for her that knocked her for a loop. But this stupid, sudden crush on the man he'd become wasn't what Logan needed right now, so she exaggerated her shock for his benefit and said, "You cook now, too?"

"You know me, " Logan answered, teasing her now, "I never do things halfway."

"Hence the Navy," she concluded brightly. "And also you're a gourmet cook now. Good to know."

He sounded amused when he asked, "So did all of that answer your doubts?"

Veronica's smile faded. “I don't have doubts," she protested. He'd become the guy she always hoped he'd be.

“Oh, come on,” Logan chided. “It's been years -- sure you do. We both do. I think it would be insane if we didn't.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. "I don't doubt _you_ , Logan." It was the clearest and safest way to explain what she was feeling, what she apparently still felt for him.

After a moment, he answered, "I never doubted you, Veronica."

* * *

Logan sprawled on the couch, one leg dangling off the edge as he listened to Veronica's story about rescuing Rosie from a shelter. The image it conjured of this tiny blonde firecracker strutting around with a crop-eared pit bull was so familiar it made him ache a little. The phone was hot against his ear, which was probably a bad sign for its remaining battery life. He wasn't sure, though, he'd never had a three hour phone conversation before.

Hell, he'd never _wanted_ a three hour phone conversation before.

Veronica seemed to bring out this kind of thing in him -- this easy acquiescence to stuff he would never have even considered if it weren't for her. Honestly, he hadn't felt that strongly about college until she gave a him a brisk talking to back at Neptune High. Veronica didn't know it, but her influence was pretty strong even when they were estranged.

“So she jumps up onto the table and -- Oh!” Veronica yawned mid-sentence. “Wow, sorry.”

Her embarrassed tone was kind of adorable. Logan grinned at the ceiling. “You've been up for like 18 hours,” he pointed out. “Do you need to sleep?”

“No,” she answered stubbornly.

“Veronica.”

“Well, I mean, in the sense that _everyone_ needs sleep, sure, but it's not like I'm -- dammit,” she cursed, yawning again.

Logan laughed. He had no desire to get off the phone, either, but it was probably unrealistic to expect that they would _actually_ stay up all night talking. He'd learned a lot about her path the last eight years. He could probably be patient and hear the rest later.

“Yeah, okay, fine,” Veronica said, sounding downright irritable now. “I guess I'll go to bed.”

Logan very deliberately didn't let himself picture _anything_ involving Veronica and a bed. Jesus. He was pretty far gone already if her simply uttering the word “bed” could get him all worked up. Logan rubbed a hand over his face. “I'm pretty sure my phone is about to wave the white flag anyway.”

“At least Rosie will be happy,” she sighed, and he _knew_ she was pouting a little bit. She used to get so adorably cranky late at night, which had entertained him for hours. 

“I missed you, you know,” Logan said, before he could think the better of it. Another one of those things that Veronica brought out in him -- this annoying habit of telling her exactly how he felt about her.

Well, maybe not _exactly_ how he felt,but probably more than she wanted to hear.

Her voice was quiet and soft when she answered. “I didn't realize how much I missed you.”

“Good, so it's settled.”

“What's settled?” she asked suspiciously, and he could perfectly picture the narrowed eyes and slight frown she was undoubtedly sporting.

“No more eight-year gaps between conversations," he explained. He figured he should keep to himself that an eight-day gap would be too much. Hell, eight hours might be pushing his limits at this point.

“Oh, _that_ I can agree to," she answered.

Logan groaned as he forced himself to sit up. His calves were protesting a bit -- maybe the run _after_ the workout had been a bit of overkill. “Okay, so next time, you can catch me up on Mac, and then the thing about the books in the law library you mentioned?”

Veronica laughed at him. “Should I make an agenda?" 

He'd missed her sarcasm. Probably he shouldn't share that insight with his therapist. “Smartass.”

“Always,” she answered cheerfully. “Okay, I might fall asleep mid-sentence, so--” She paused. “I'll talk to you later?” She sounded a little unsure.

It wasn't even a question. “Absolutely.”

“K. Night, Logan.”

“Night, Veronica.” It was the way they used to end their late-night calls when they were together, and he wondered if it was habit or intentional. But that really wasn't an answer he needed to pursue at this point.

Logan hung up reluctantly, brushed his teeth, tossed his shirt into the laundry basket, and slid into bed. Even with the TV turned on for white noise, he just lay there and recounted their conversation. He hoped sleep came easier to her than it did for him -- he couldn't help turning over and over the things they'd talked about. Luxuriating in the unexpected three-hour hit of Veronica Mars he'd gotten.

Except for the occasional turbulence, they'd been remarkably open and easy with each other. She'd promised him a picture of Rosie, and he'd sworn he'd send her a link to some YouTube cockpit videos his buddy had uploaded. But the most important takeaway was that she wanted to talk to him again. Probably soon. He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

Because he was up later than normal, Logan slept until nearly 9. He blinked and sat up in bed, a little disoriented by the amount of light in his bedroom. Then he recalled their conversation, and ended up smiling like a lovesick goofball. Stretching slowly, Logan eased his way to the edge of the bed and stood. He glanced over at his phone, which was blinking for his attention, and grabbed it.

He checked the texts. Veronica Mars.

He clicked immediately. _As requested._ A picture downloaded, and he caught his breath -- she'd clearly been trying to take a picture of Rosie and herself looking at the camera, but Rosie had turned to lick Veronica's cheek, and the picture captured Veronica mid-laugh. The happiness on her face actually made his eyes sting a little bit.

There was a second message, so once he could make himself stop studying her face, he scrolled down.

_Forgot to ask you about all your *least* favorites. Guess you'll have to call me later._

Logan beamed down at her message and quickly typed: _I think that can be arranged._

END

**Author's Note:**

> STORIES IN THIS UNIVERSE:
> 
>  
> 
> [Directional Stability](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1183780)
> 
>  
> 
> [Situational Awareness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1239151)
> 
>  
> 
> Angle of Attack


End file.
